Dariya Kahe Sabad Nirvana #4

Love is not bondage. And any love that is bondage is not love. Love is a declaration of freedom. Love is not a prison; it is the open sky.

If you understand my love, sannyas will not feel like bondage. Yes, all the loves you have known so far were bondages. They tied you, they crippled you; they gave you walls and chains; they effaced you. Naturally your mind has forged an inevitable association between love and bondage. Even in wedding invitations people write, “My son is entering the bond of love.” Love and bondage! Then what will liberation be? Love and bondage! Then where will you find freedom?

Cut this illusion at the root. Wherever there is bondage, know it is something else—it is not love. Wherever there is freedom, where the taste of liberation arises—know love is there.

Perhaps you took sannyas in order to bind yourself. That is on your side. For your side I am not responsible. From my side sannyas is given so that you become perfectly free; so that no chains remain upon you; so that for the first time you can declare your own being; so that for the first time you can say, “Now I will be that for which God has made me.” I will accept no conditions, I will bow to no compromises—whatever the consequences. And perhaps you have begun to sense those consequences; hence the fear.

And you ask, “Now I feel afraid—who knows what will happen?” Love knows no fear. The relation between love and fear is like that between light and darkness. Because you have not understood love, fear arises. In moments of love even death dissolves. What fear can remain? Only those are afraid in whom the energy of love is not vibrating. In a frightened person there is no soul. And where the veena of love plays, fear is expelled of its own accord.

No, but perhaps you even took sannyas out of fear. There is a fundamental mistake in your taking sannyas; hence such a question. For centuries, in the name of religion, you have been taught not love but fear. Fear has two names—hell and heaven. Heaven, too, is fear—hidden in the language of greed. And hell is fear—plain, naked. People refrain from sin out of fear of hell. And out of fear of losing heaven they do virtue. Greed for heaven produces “virtue,” fear of hell prevents “sin.” Is this any real escaping? Is this sin? Virtue? Over centuries your vision of life has been molded this way. But those who molded it were not the enlightened. They were pundits, priests, tradesmen. And the fundamental basis of the religion-business is: create fear, create greed. For human beings can be exploited only on the foundation of fear and greed.

I say to you: there is no hell, there is no heaven. If there is hell, it is you; if there is heaven, it is you. Heaven and hell are not geographical locations; they are your psychology. There is a way of living by which each moment, each breath becomes heaven. And there is a way of living by which each moment, each breath becomes hell. If you live in fear, you will live in hell. You have been told: he who fears will fall into hell. I say to you: the one who is fearing—he is hell! You have been told: he who does virtue will go to heaven. Will go! Promises and expectations of the future! No—I say to you: the one who is loving is in heaven! This is not a promise about the future. Do flowers bloom now and their fragrance spread later? If fire burns now, will you feel warmth later? If thorns pierce now, will you suffer pain in the future? These future-fancies are devices to hide your untruths. If a thorn pricks now, the pain is now. If a flower brings fragrance, your nostrils fill now, are delighted now. Life is cash, not credit. You have been taught credit-talk. And the sole meaning of credit-talk is to postpone it to tomorrow. And tomorrow never comes. Postpone to tomorrow so you can be exploited today. Rewards and such—all for tomorrow; exploitation now.

Try to see through this trick.

You likely took sannyas according to those old fixed notions: that you will attain moksha, you will get heaven. “Will get”—don’t use such language with me! Sannyas is heaven! You must have thought: by taking sannyas I shall be saved from hell, I won’t have to suffer the stings of sin, I won’t have to burn in cauldrons. Drop all that foolishness—children’s scare-stories. They have no greater value than scaring little ones. Rise above childishness; become mature!

Now you feel afraid—who knows what will happen? This fear too arises because my sannyas is not a sannyas of fixed doctrines. If you were a Hindu sannyasin, everything would be assured. If you were a Jain sannyasin, everything would be assured. They have drawn line upon line for you. In the Buddhist scriptures there are thirty-three thousand rules for a monk to follow! Could a man ever become free? Could there ever be freedom? Thirty-three thousand rules! Even to remember them would be difficult. And with thirty-three thousand rules they have bound you grain by grain: how you will get up, how you will sit, what you will eat, what you will drink, where you will stay, how long you will stay—nothing is left out.

These rules were not made by Buddha. Buddha would not descend into such shopkeeping—there is no likelihood of it. But a net of pundits and accountants followed Buddha, with but one ambition: how to bind the entire human race in chains? They manufactured these thirty-three thousand chains. Those who bind themselves in them feel a certain security—there will be no fear. If you are fulfilling every rule, what is there to fear? And it may well be that the rules are hollow. All rules are hollow. Because whatever is not born from your own soul is hollow. Whatever is imposed from the outside is hollow. Whatever you accept simply because it is someone else’s has the value of two pennies. What arises as your own inner feeling—that alone is a diamond; the rest are pebbles.

My sannyasin will face this difficulty: I do not give you a rule-bound blueprint. I do not make you slaves to the beaten line. They say: lions do not move in herds. Three leave the rut—the poet, the lion, and the worthy son. Those with even a little genius do not walk on lines, on tracks. They are not railway carriages to run on fixed rails. They are like the Ganga and Yamuna descending from the Himalayas, with no predetermined line. They find their own course. And the joy of finding your own path is such that only your enemies can give you lines and rules. Your friends will not. Your friends can give you only one thing—the longing to seek, the joy of exploration, the ecstasy of consciousness. And in the light of that consciousness, even if the light is faint—a small lamp throws light for four steps, yet with a small lamp you can journey a thousand miles through darkness. Walk four steps, and another four are lit; walk four steps, and the next four are lit.

I give you the lamp of meditation; I do not give you a scripture of rules. That too makes you afraid.

Now you want me to reassure you. Reassurance—and me! You are asking the impossible! I do not give consolations; I snatch them away. I am not here to give you comfort; I am here to give you truth. And comfort covers the truth. If I reassure you, your weakness will not be removed. Consolation is like handing a crutch to a lame man: with the crutch he begins to walk, but the lameness does not go. I want to see you whole and hale. If you are walking with crutches in your hands, I will snatch those too. Because as long as those crutches remain in your hands, it will never even occur to you that you can walk—on your own feet. Since childhood you have been given crutches. Unfortunate is the person who has been walking on crutches since childhood, for he never gains trust in his own feet. And with crutches you may go to the market and buy vegetables, you may earn trifles, but you will not be able to make the journey to God.

Someone had wept and called before as well,
Once again I have had the bracelet fastened upon the hand of feeling,
And this time what will happen—God alone knows!

Someone had wept and called before as well,
Once too the mind had been bound;
At the godlike glance of desire
The mirror had been shattered once before,
Fearfully I have again accepted a kinship with the dream,
And this time what all the world will say—God alone knows!

And again this time, as before,
A throng of high spirits has gathered in the courtyard;
It feels today, as if unbidden,
Life has awakened from sleep once more.
With this eye I have welcomed that Eye,
And this time how much water will flow—God alone knows!

Only a day ago this very water-drawing place,
Brimful, had timorously swallowed up my thirst;
Sleep that, drinking its waters, had died—
Song, drinking its waters, had come alive.
Out of pity for poor sorrow I have given it shelter again,
And this time what all the mind will have to bear—God alone knows!

Naturally, questions will be arising in your mind—
I have once again had the bracelet fastened upon the hand of feeling,
And this time what will happen—God alone knows!

Sannyas is the bracelet on the hand of feeling. Sannyas is the nuptial circling with the Infinite. Sannyas is the seven rounds with Truth.

I have once again had the bracelet fastened upon the hand of feeling,
And this time what will happen—God alone knows!

Anxiety seizes you—because of old habits. Now leave it to Ram! With whom you have taken the rounds, leave it to him.

I have fearfully accepted the kinship of the dream once again,
And this time what all the world will say—God alone knows!

I understand your difficulty—I understand it with a sympathetic heart. Who knows what people will say! They will laugh, call you mad, call you perverse. But on the path of God people have always said such things. Can you not pay so small a price? If you cannot make so small a surrender, then drop asking for the infinite bliss! For everything in life a price must be paid.

With this eye I have welcomed that Eye,
And this time how much water will flow—God alone knows!

A great deal will flow. Your eyes will remain wet with tears now. For when the heart becomes moist, the eyes cannot be spared. You will weep greatly. But these tears will be of joy, not sorrow. Remember, tears are not always of sorrow. Tears have no necessary relation with pain. They come sometimes in anger, sometimes in grief, sometimes in joy, sometimes in ecstasy, sometimes in the perception of beauty. Tears are not bound to any one thing. Tears come when something in your heart is so much that you cannot contain it. Tears flow in love. Tears flow in prayer. Whenever a flood flows over you, tears come.

Out of pity for poor sorrow I have given it shelter again,
And this time what all the mind will have to bear—God alone knows!

The mind will bear much. But what you bear for the sake of the soul is meaningful. The mind will be cut, the mind will fall, the mind will die. Be ready for the death of the mind. Sannyas is an invitation to just that. And remember one thing: until God is, nothing is. However much you may be, you will be hell. The moment God begins to be within you, that very day is the good morning of heaven.

If you are not found upon the path,
Even if I find heaven on earth—it is futile!

The lamp that burned all night
Found in the morning the ray-palanquin of the ever-maiden dawn,
The sun, traveling all day on the fiery path,
At night kissed the curl on the moon’s cheek,
In life everyone has always found
The beloved of the breath and the charioteer of the way,
Only I alone, till today,
Have not found the support of any arm,
Now if life be without support, then
Even if the whole world walks with me—it is futile!
If I do not find you upon the path,
Even if I find heaven on earth—it is futile!

The earth revolves upon a single nail,
The sky is bound by but a single string,
Life is imprisoned in a single breath,
The shroud is woven from a single thread,
Thus in everyone’s eyes here
A certain face dwells silently;
Even if one were to receive the whole world’s love,
Without that one, a man has no awareness,
If I have no awareness today,
Even if Urvashi bloom as a flower—it is futile!
If I do not find you upon the path,
Even if I find heaven on earth—it is futile!

In this city of ruin you alone were the one
I was seeking—’twas for you I had come here;
Had you not been, how would I know
Where the body would wander, where the mind would wander?
It is you for whom, till today,
I have been sobbing in word and in song,
It is you that, without whom, made a corpse of me,
Wandering daily in the cremation ground,
But if you do not now drink my thirst,
Even if the Himalayas melt upon my lips—it is futile!
If I do not find you upon the path,
Even if I find heaven on earth—it is futile!

I loved the flower for many days,
But the heart’s ache never smiled;
I set my heart upon the moon as well,
Yet nowhere did my life-breath find peace;
But the day you called—when I lay upon the pyre—
I sang;
I know not what magic you wrought—
In the lap of fire a tear broke into a smile,
And now if you do not give me light,
Even if all the stars burn nearby—it is futile!
If I do not find you upon the path,
Even if I find heaven on earth—it is futile!

When I set out to find you in the world,
The temples misled me much;
Yet this good befell—in life’s long race
I paid no heed to the stones;
The mountains bowed their heads and kissed my feet,
A bud flung her arm round my neck in delight;
But bearing only your image,
I kept my mantle clean and passed on;
And still, if I do not find you, then say—
What meaning has birth? What meaning has death?
If I do not find you upon the path,
Even if I find heaven on earth—it is futile!

Sannyas is the search for the One, upon finding whom a rain of meaning descends upon life. Vessels of nectar begin to be poured into your heart. But courage is needed—needed indeed. Your legs will tremble—they are unaccustomed; the road is unknown, unfamiliar—the mind will fear; old conditionings will pull you back like chains—this is all granted. Yet even breaking all this, one must go. Because until God is found, remember—

If I do not find you upon the path,
Even if I find heaven on earth—it is futile!

Let this much remembrance remain awake—that is enough. And for this remembrance, whatever must be given—even life itself—still it is worthwhile. For life will, in any case, be snatched one day by death. What sense is there in trying to save what is anyway to be taken? Use it. Why not attain the nectar by offering it at the feet of the Lord? That which death will snatch—offered at the Lord’s feet—becomes immortal.

Dear Ayub Syed! I am not a nationalist. India, Pakistan, China, Japan have no meaning for me. I do not see this earth as divided into fragments. The misfortune of the earth is precisely that it is divided into fragments. And as long as it remains divided, that misfortune will continue. Science has made the earth one; if only politics would step aside, humanity’s misfortune would end. Today the earth has all the means to make human beings happy and prosperous. For the first time, the earth could fill even the gods of heaven with envy.

But politics will have to die if science is to win. Science opens the doors of good fortune; politics turns those very doors into misfortune. Scientists like Albert Einstein and Lord Rutherford discovered the atomic bomb. The atom could have proved a blessing for the earth, for such energy had come into our hands that we could have done whatever we wished. But what happened was the opposite. In Hiroshima and Nagasaki, hundreds of thousands were reduced to ashes. Science discovers power; politics uses that power. Einstein was so shaken in his last days that when someone asked him, “In your next life, would you again like to be a scientist?” he said, “No. I would rather be a plumber—better that, but never again a scientist. For what we discovered was wasted—not only wasted, it proved lethal, poisonous.”

With the discovery of atomic energy there is no need for even a single person on this earth to go hungry. Nor is there any need for so many to rot in thousands of diseases. Nor is it necessary for man to live only the fixed, old seventy years. Scientists say: now a man can easily live two hundred years—quite easily! And scientists also say that the human body has such capacity to rejuvenate itself that death need not happen as an inevitability. It can be postponed, greatly postponed. Science has made the earth utterly small—a tiny village. In twenty-four hours you can circle the globe. But politics is proving disastrous.

So the first thing, Ayub Syed, that I would like to say is this: if India wants the dawn of its good fortune, it should be the first country on earth to declare itself international. It should say, “We become the land of the United Nations—the whole country! We do not want to keep it separate.” And India is the one country that can take this step first; its tradition is such! Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam—the world is one family. For centuries we have repeated that the whole earth is our family. Until now there was no scientific basis for this statement, so it remained merely the voice of sages. Now it can be made a reality. Now you can transform your rishis’ insights into practical experiments. For those who declared “Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam,” nothing would be a greater offering to their souls than India being the first country on earth—may India not miss this honor—to declare, “We are international. We renounce petty boundaries. We renounce petty national insistences. We declare ourselves international.”

This is my first conception regarding the future. And remember, someone will do it. If you miss it, you will repent. This is not the kind of historic moment and great opportunity to be missed. Someone will do it, sooner or later—Switzerland perhaps… someone will! But whoever does it will be a maker of history. It will be a new beginning, the laying of a new foundation for humanity.

Yet I am not a nationalist. Nationalism is poison! Humanity has suffered much because of nationalism. And alongside nationalism come religiosity, sectarianism—of caste, of color, of class. These too are politics’ little games. I also want that man should now not bind himself within any boundaries—neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Jain, nor Christian. Being human is enough. This does not mean that if someone finds joy in the Bible, he should not take it. But one can, as a human being, take joy in the Bible; being a Christian is not indispensable. It does not mean that if someone is intoxicated by the Gita, he should not relish it. But where is the necessity of being a Hindu for that? If to board an airplane you need not be a Hindu or a Christian; if to take medicine from a doctor you need not be a Hindu or a Christian; then for taking from the great physicians—Krishna, Nanak, Kabir, Dariya, Muhammad, Jesus, Buddha—the remedy for the illness of life, where is the need to be Hindu, Muslim, Christian? There is no compulsion to impose these small insistences upon yourself. The truth is, the stronger these insistences become, the more our connection with those great physicians is severed.

All boundaries should be transcended. There should be a proclamation: man is simply man. Chandidas has said, “Sabar upar manus satya, tahar upar nahin”—Above all is the truth of man; there is nothing higher than that. Repeat this proclamation, make it resound from house to house, heart to heart—“Sabar upar manus satya, tahar upar nahin.” Man is the supreme truth; there is no truth higher. God too is concealed within man. God is another name for the innermost of man; he resides in the inner cave. God is not far from the devotee. The day the devotee is wholly immersed in devotion, in that very moment he becomes God.

Drop all small insistences, so that we can call the whole heritage of humanity our own. What poverty is this—that because you are a Hindu, the Quran is not your inheritance! And the Quran is so lovely! You are needlessly poor; the Quran could be your wealth.

Think a little: while reading Shakespeare you do not have to be a Christian. Nor do you have to be a Hindu to read Kalidasa. Nor do you have to be a Muslim to read Omar Khayyam. In the world of literature you accept Shakespeare, or Omar Khayyam, or Kalidasa as your own. The world of religion is even greater than that. In it the Quran, the Guru Granth, the Bible, the Dhammapada, the Gita—all should be yours. The truly religious person is one who calls the religious experiences of the whole world his own. You are not only sons of Rama and Krishna; the blood of Buddha and Mahavira also flows in you. You are not connected only with Muhammad and Christ; the blood of Zarathustra and Lao Tzu also flows in you. The whole human consciousness is one ocean. The ghats have many names; the ocean is one. You are bound to the ghats and have forgotten the ocean!

I am against nationalism, against religiosity, against sectarianism, against denominationalism. I want man to assimilate his entire past. And the one who assimilates his entire past—that very person can be the master of the entire future—remember this. And we must be masters of the entire future. So I say not only in relation to religion: we must be masters of both religion and science.

The old man was incomplete. In the old man there were two kinds of people—materialists and spiritualists; both were incomplete. The materialist thought, “I am only the body—eat, drink, and be merry!” The spiritualist thought, “I am apart from the body—therefore neither eat, nor drink, nor be merry; suffer, lie on thorns, fast, stand on your head; melt the body, for the soul is the enemy of the body.” Both are foolish notions. And both have deranged humankind.

My conception of the man of the future is that he will be neither materialist nor spiritualist. He will be a man of wholeness; he will say, “I am soul as well as body. The body is my home; in it the soul resides.”

Do you not decorate your home? Do you not keep it clean? And where the soul resides, that body ceases to be merely a house; it becomes a temple. Respect for the body is, indirectly, respect for the soul hidden within you. So the body is not to be tormented, not to be destroyed, not to be melted; the body is to be made a staircase.

The old man was fragmented. This fragmented man created a world that suffered greatly. The one who thought “eat, drink, be merry” ended in eating, drinking, making merry; he never even glanced toward inner treasures. He did not admit them, so why would he look? He lived extrovert, died extrovert—inside he remained a pauper of paupers, while within sat the emperor of emperors. And the one who thought everything is within became introvert, closed his eyes. He found inner juices, but outside a great poverty spread, a wretchedness.

Today’s India is poor; in this your spiritualists have a hand. Whether your mind accepts it or not, whether your ego is hurt or not—I am not concerned! Your India today is poor, dying of hunger—half the people are hungry; no one seems truly healthy. The reason behind it is your spiritualists. They said, “There is nothing outside—just close your eyes and sit in caves.”

The West became outwardly affluent but inwardly poor. The East became inwardly affluent but outwardly poor. This is gross incompleteness—as if one wing of a bird were cut off and you said: fly! Whether you cut the left or the right, what difference does it make? The bird cannot fly. Or as if one leg of a man were cut off and you said: run! Left or right—what difference?

The East’s humanity is one-winged; the West’s humanity is one-winged. I want a man with both wings. In my conception of the future there is a man who rejoices in the body and rejoices in the soul; who is neither merely introvert nor merely extrovert; who is skillful in going within and in coming without; whose skill builds a bridge between introversion and extroversion.

As you step out of your house. Morning comes, the sun is out, dear birds begin to sing—you come outside. Does it take great effort to come out? Some big yogic practice? A headstand first? You come out effortlessly. Then the sun grows fierce, the body begins to burn—you go back in, seeking shade. As you come inside when the heat is too much and step outside when the cold is too much, so should man be skillful—at going out and coming in. Within is ours, without is ours; all is ours. Nothing is to be rejected.

I want to give you such skill that you can move in and out with ease—so easily as breath goes out and comes in. The East decided to hold the breath only within—dead! The West decided to hold the breath only without—dead! Both experiments have failed. The whole history of mankind so far is a history of failure. I want a new man. He should be born in India and outside India—for he has no special relation with India alone. In every corner of the earth a new man should arise. He will be a breathing man—breathing out and breathing in.

And note a delightful point: the deeper the breath you exhale, the deeper the breath that will enter. And the deeper you inhale, the deeper the exhalation will be. Between the two there is a balance. Until now you have been taught to fear inhaling, to fear living; to live is sin, living is punishment. You are sent to this earth as punishment for sin.

These delusions must break—and because of these very delusions religion and science have been set at odds. The moment this notion breaks and we accept man in his totality—beautiful outside, beautiful inside—religion and science will draw near. And the greatest blessed moment on this earth will be when science and religion are together, dancing hand in hand! On that day there will be abundance of wealth and abundance of meditation! On that day the body will be healthy and the soul ecstatic.

This is my conception for all humankind—naturally India is included in it.

The old man was either otherworldly or this-worldly; either atheist or theist. And whenever a man makes such divisions—atheist-theist, this world-the other—he breaks into fragments. A fragmented man becomes deranged. This world is ours, the other world is ours. And the other world is not different from this world; it is the very extension of this world. Nor are atheism and theism enemies. Atheism is the staircase to theism. Understand this well, for you have been taught the opposite so many times that it has become fossilized—that atheism and theism are enemies! But I repeat: atheism is the staircase to theism. The man who has not learned to say “no” will never truly be able to say “yes.” The man impotent in saying no—his yes is also impotent. The man who can say no—if someday he says yes, you can trust his yes. But the man who always says, “Yes, sir; yes, sir,” never trust his words. There is no strength in his yes—his yes is utterly weak, lifeless. Hence your theists appear utterly lifeless.

The earth is full of theists—one goes to the temple, one to the gurdwara, another to the mosque, another to the church. Your earth is full of theists—but the fragrance of theism is nowhere to be found! What is the matter? Where is the slip? The slip occurs because your theists are hollow. They have been made theists by force. Theism is not their own choice, not their own resolve.

From childhood theism is imposed on children: bow before God; God exists; if you do not bow you will rot in hell; if you bow you will be rewarded in heaven. Frightened, terrorized—little, helpless children! No one on earth has suffered as much abuse as helpless children. Try it with anyone else and he will resist a little; what resistance can helpless children offer? They depend on you; they say yes to whatever you say. You call the night, night—fine; you call the night day—fine. The child is so helpless, so dependent—for food, livelihood, clothes, everything—that he will say whatever you want. Born in a Hindu home he becomes a Hindu; born in a Muslim home he becomes a Muslim. Raise a child born in a Muslim home in a Hindu household—he will become Hindu. He will not even remember he was ever Muslim. This Muslimness, this Hinduness—these are all imposed.

I want this imposition to end. Let children be free. Yes, do give them the thirst to inquire—tell them: search in life. Life is not only what appears on the surface; much is hidden within—search. We search, you also search. Give them the urge to inquire, but do not give doctrines about what will be found. Naturally each child will begin with negation. Negation sharpens the blade of the sword. He will first say no—for what does not make sense to him, he will not say yes. You will say, “God is”; he will say, “No. Where? Show me!”

Every intelligent person, if he has a little intelligence, will first be an atheist. And the quest of atheism will gradually bring him to that place where experiences begin to happen that are hard to deny. Someday he will fall in love, know love, and find that beyond words and doctrines life does not end—there is something more. Someday he will see a rose bloom and find it beautiful—but beauty cannot be proved, for beauty is not a substance. Someday he will see a starry night and be left amazed, wonderstruck. For a moment there will be silence. The beauty of the starry night, that peace, that dignity, that grandeur—there will be in his life the first rustle of yes. Thus, by denying and denying, one day he will inevitably reach the temple of yes. And then yes has a flavor. Then theism has an explosion.

I want the earth to be theistic—but not in opposition to atheism. I want theists who have drunk atheism and then become theists. I want theists who have used atheism as a staircase. I want theists who do not fear hearing “no” and do not put fingers in their ears. I want theists who have used the edge of no to seek yes.

Those otherworldly theists were inevitably against this life. In India we gave them full opportunity! They destroyed our whole life! Everything is wrong, they said. Food is wrong; wearing good clothes is wrong; building a good house is wrong; a life of comfort is wrong—everything is wrong! They made us sick. Our entire psychology became a long story of illness! They caused two calamities. One: they declared this life wrong—this world is sin, maya. That had two results. First, those who did not listen to them and somehow lived in this world developed guilt—that whatever they were doing was wrong. If they loved a woman—sin! If they earned some money—sin! If they built a good house—sin! If they wore fine clothes—sin! They developed guilt. And because of guilt, whatever they did they could not enjoy, for within was filled with guilt. Trembling inside, afraid they would roast in hell—“we fell in love with a woman!”

And second, those who accepted their preaching became hypocrites. For life is so natural that however much you say it is false or a dream, it still draws, it attracts. It will draw, because within it is hidden the attraction of God—let your so-called saints shout as much as they will!

So they created two kinds of people: hypocrites—one thing on the outside, another inside; and those filled with guilt—poor fellows always walking with a stone on their chest. We have badly injured humanity.

In my conception of the future there will be a man who neither is filled with guilt nor is a hypocrite; who lives life in its totality, in fullness, and consecrates his life at the feet of the Divine; who will love, who will dance, who will sing; who will relish the joys of this life—and because of all this joy will feel grateful to God: blessed am I that you gave such a rare opportunity—to me, so unworthy, a nothing! Such beautiful trees, their greenness, their flowers! Such moons and stars, such suns, such people, such a wondrous world you have given me, for which I had no qualification—so I am grateful! He will enjoy the joy of this world, and the very savoring of joy will become his prayer. I want to see such a man—in India and outside India.

The old man was moralistic, not religious. There is a great difference between morality and religion. Morality is living according to what others impose upon you. Religion is living according to the hints given by your own consciousness. And it is not necessary that religion and morality always agree—often they do not. In Buddha’s time, it was moral to sacrifice animals in yajnas. But Buddha’s inner being did not bear witness. Animal sacrifice! Morally accepted, yet it did not find witness in Buddha’s heart. In Muhammad’s time, worship of stone idols was morally accepted, but it did not sit as truth in Muhammad’s heart that by worshiping stone one could reach God.

Morality is a socially sanctioned arrangement. Religion is the feeling that arises in the soul. Until now arrangements have been made for man to live morally—because society wants you to follow society. It is not a question of right or wrong. Who are you to decide right and wrong!

Five thousand years have passed since Manu wrote his Smriti, and Hindus still follow it. This is morality. It is not religion. Manu wrote that the Shudra is to be rejected; so the Shudra is still rejected—even now they are burned. What Manu wrote is still followed. This is morality, not religion.

The foundation stone of the old world was morality. The foundation stone of the future will be religion. Religion gives the individual privacy; morality snatches away privacy. And once privacy is taken, the soul is taken! Religion is that soft inner voice within each person—from where God speaks.

Therefore I do not tell my sannyasin to be moral. This does not mean I say, be immoral. It only means: go deep into meditation and listen to your inner voice—and what it says to you, that is the supreme law. Then stake everything on it. And you will never lose, never miss; you will arrive. The man of the future will not be moral—he will be religious.

A new conception of man—an utterly new conception—has become necessary: one that accepts life in its totality—and with gratitude! A conception that rejects nothing, from the smallest to the vastest. For in the mud the lotus is hidden. Reject the mud and the lotus will never be born. Though in the mud you do not see the lotus; when the lotus blooms, it is hard to believe it could have been born from mud. Both mud and lotus must be embraced.

Therefore I tell my sannyasin: do not leave home, do not leave the doorway. This is the muddy world; do not run away from it—or you will never become a lotus. In my conception of sannyas, this is the first sketch of what kind of man there should be, its first ordinance. But, Ayub Syed, I am not saying these things only for India. I have no wish to make such appeals within narrow confines. These apply to India—as they apply to all humankind.

And a very decisive hour is approaching when something must be decided. In the coming twenty-five years, either we will see that all humanity, because of its own stupidities, has brought about its end… for so many atom bombs and hydrogen bombs have been amassed that each person can be killed seven hundred times. Seven hundred such earths can be annihilated—root and branch. Not only man will die; animals, birds, plants, insects—all will die. And the keys to such enormous destructive means are in the hands of people who are almost insane.

Our situation is like this: I have heard that a jumbo jet once took off with about seven hundred and fifty passengers. Suddenly the pilot burst into loud laughter—so loud that through the intercom his laughter reached all the passengers. And the laughter was a bit terrifying—laughter like a madman’s. And it would not stop. Finally people went and asked, “What is the matter? Why are you laughing?” He said, “I have escaped from the madhouse. I used to be a pilot… I have run away from the asylum. They must be looking for me!… That is why I am laughing.”

Imagine what those seven hundred and fifty people went through! A madman at the controls—what trust can you have in life now?

This vast energy that has been amassed across the world is in the hands of politicians—and where will you find more insane men than these! The keys are in the hands of madmen. We are certainly passing through a grave danger. Any one madman among them can begin the great destruction—and it will be chain-linked; once one begins, the other will have to begin. And the destruction will be such that no one will win or lose—because all will die.

Before that destruction occurs, man must lay down some new foundations for life. Only in meditation can those foundations be laid; for meditation alone quiets man, frees him from war, frees him from hostility, frees him from the destruction of the other. And meditation alone gives man the opportunity to hear the voice of his inner being.

Therefore my entire effort is concentrated on one thing: how can more and more people attain to the dignity of meditation? In meditation lies the future of man. And in meditation alone is the one possibility of safety. The sannyas I am spreading consists only of carriers of the news of meditation—who will take the fragrance of meditation to the farthest corners of the earth. The more people engage in meditation, the better; by that much the chances of humanity’s survival increase.

Life is neither futile nor meaningful. Life is a blank canvas. Paint upon it whatever you wish. Life is a blank book—write abuses in it if you like, or write songs. In itself, life is nothing; life is a bare opportunity. Many people live with the illusion that life already has a meaning and wonder why they cannot find it. Meaning does not exist in life; it has to be put into it. The more you pour in, the more you will receive—no more.

A flute lies before you and you sit there saying, “The flute is here, but why are there no notes in it?” Notes do not dwell inside a flute; they have to be born, awakened, poured in, coaxed to surge. Put it to your lips and play, and an incomparable music will arise. There is no ready-made meaning in life, as if you could walk into a ready-made shop and come back wearing tailored clothes. Life is only an open opportunity; it will become whatever you make of it. That’s why a Buddha fashions nirvana out of it, and someone like Hitler fashions a great hell. Right beside you one person lives in heaven and you live in hell—out of the very same life. Life is supreme freedom. Life is creation.

You ask: “Why does life feel futile?”
Because you have not put meaning into it. Why does a garden feel empty? You have not sown seeds. Why do flowers not come? If you did sow, you did not water.

Be creative and there will be meaning. Those who are not creative—their lives will remain futile. And they themselves are responsible; no one else.

Then you say: “When I come to you I get a small glimpse of meaning.”
A glimpse is exactly what you will get. Just as you are walking along a dark road and a man appears with a lantern, and you fall in step with him. For as long as the man with the lantern walks beside you, the path is lit. Then a crossroads comes and he says, “Goodbye, brother, I go my way now.” Again there is dense darkness! And you are amazed: a moment ago there was a little glimmer—why this thick darkness now?

In the light of my lamp you can walk a little while. But it is not the light of your lamp. Only when your own lamp is lit will the light stay with you always. Otherwise there will be mere glimpses. You go into a garden—the fragrance is palpable; back at home, where will you find fragrance? Not until your home too becomes a garden. Sit with me a while and my ecstasy will envelop you; my songs will become your singing; a little of your life will be linked with my life; a little satsang will happen; a little rasa will flow; you too will taste a little; there will be a light drizzle. But take from this only the understanding that a drizzle is possible, light is possible, nectar is possible. Then ask: How do I bring this forth? If I can bring it forth, you can bring it forth—I am not different from you in the least, nor you from me. Whatever is possible in me is possible in you.

That is why I am against certain notions. Hindus say Rama is an avatar—one descended from above. Avatar means “one who has come down.” I do not support this idea. Because if Rama is an avatar and has fragrance, of what use is that to us? He is an avatar, he came from the sky—fine!—but we did not come from the sky; we sprouted from the earth! They say Krishna is an avatar. I do not like the notion of avatar.

I prefer the Jaina notion of the tirthankara. Tirthankara means not a descender, but one born among us, just like us—exactly like us—and then flowers blossomed in his life. That brings trust. If flowers can bloom in the life of one just like you, made of the same flesh and bone, of the same earth, then they can bloom in you too.

Tirthankara means: one who made the ford by his own effort. He was just like you, but one day something happened within and he was illumined. Mahavira, Buddha, Parshva, Nemi—these are people like you; they are not avatars. They did not descend; they ascended. They rose toward the sky. They were born of the earth. You too are born of the earth—you too can rise toward the sky.

You say, “Why does life feel futile?”
Because you have sown the seeds of futility. People are sowing futility—someone is piling up money. When has money ever made life meaningful? It can make it comfortable, not meaningful. Comfort is not meaning. Sit in your air-conditioned room—if you are futile within, you remain futile. No air-conditioning company claims to give meaning. Yes, the room will not be hot; it will be cool. But you will still be you. If insults and curses are whirling within you, what will the air-conditioning do? They will whirl more comfortably—with coolness! In the harsh sun you might even have forgotten them for a while.

Arrange the outer world as beautifully as you like, but until a song arises within, what can the outer arrangement do? And remember, I am not against outer order. Whatever you arrange outside is fine; only don’t stop there—meaning does not arise from that. For meaning, something else must be done.

Outer order is created by science; meaning is an inner happening, born of religion. Order is created by science; meaning is born of knowing. Convenience comes from outward organization; peace and joy come from inner organization. What have you done for the inner? You earned money, built a house, have children, a family—all fine—and I oppose none of this. But what have you done for the inner? Have you churned the inner depths? Has the shehnai sounded within? Have you sought the Beloved within? Have you taken the seven rounds within?

You see, at marriage one must take seven rounds. These are only the outer reflections of the seven inner rounds. Within man there are seven chakras. As you complete each round with each chakra, you reach the sahasrar. The seven inner chakras became the seven outer rounds. And those seven rounds are taken around the fire. The seven inner rounds too must be taken by kindling the inner fire. And the inner fire is lit by thirst for the Divine—by a blazing thirst! As one lost in a desert thirsts—not an ordinary thirst, but a fire—so when the thirst for God arises in your life, so intense that a single moment without him is impossible, then the inner fire is born, the fire is ignited. That is the real yajna. And when you complete seven rounds around that fire, in the sahasrar the lotus of meaning blooms.

You ask: “Why is there no meaning in life?”
Because you have not created it. And when you come to me you get a little glimpse. A glimpse is all it will be. That is no small thing. A glimpse brings trust that meaning can be. Then meaning must be created—do not remain dependent on the glimpse. Listen to a great veena player and you may be transported. But don’t go home thinking you have become a veena player. You will have to learn to play. That ecstasy gave you a reminder—yes, such magic is possible through the veena. And a veena lies in your house too, and you have fingers just like the musician’s; but you will need to practice bringing those fingers into relationship with the veena’s strings. That practice is sadhana.

You rose, and the whole assembly rose;
only the temple kept trembling.
The palanquin of dreams was lifted, and tears departed;
the blossoms’ youth turned to dust.
Day’s joy turned to evening’s ink;
the tower of the body melted into water.
Now that you are gone—alas, out of season here,
one cloud kept brimming with tears!
You rose, and the whole assembly rose;
only the temple kept trembling.

When you stood near, holding my hand,
the world bowed at my feet.
Every gaze was restless for me,
every blossom a garland for my neck.
Without you, for a few toys,
a childhood kept writhing.
You rose, and the whole assembly rose;
only the temple kept trembling.

The world loved me much,
but my devotion to you never broke.
I wore many rubies and diamonds,
yet your image never slipped from my hand.
What shall I say? For every mirror
I kept showing your face.
You rose, and the whole assembly rose;
only the temple kept trembling.

Yesterday the one who took leave at the ghat,
that lotus has blossomed again in the pond.
From the neem, the fruit that fell yesterday
has begun to swing again on the branch.
Only I, separated from you here,
keep coming and going every day.
You rose, and the whole assembly rose;
only the temple kept trembling.

If the Divine abides within you, the temple is full. If the Divine is not within you, there is nothing—an empty, dark night—meaningless, flowerless, lightless. Tamaso ma jyotir-gamaya—O Lord, lead me from darkness to light; Asato ma sad-gamaya—O Lord, lead me from the unreal to the real; Mrityor ma amritam-gamaya—O Lord, lead me from death to the deathless.

Without the Divine you are death. Without the Divine you are untruth. Without the Divine you are darkness.

You rose, and the whole assembly rose;
only the temple kept trembling.

Without him you are only a trembling temple—a temple without a deity. What meaning is there in it? Where is the music, where the celebration? Call to the temple’s deity—and it is not that the deity is far away. He is nearer than the nearest—closer than you are to yourself. Just call. That calling is prayer.

Prayer will give your life meaning. Not a mere glimpse—an experience. An experience that becomes your treasure.

Satsang is only so that trust may arise. Satsang is so that the search begins within you. Satsang is not the end. How can there be an end without Truth happening?

The fire of divine love is not lit in order to be put out. This fire is such that only when you burn to ashes will peace be found. Peace will not come by extinguishing the fire, but by your being extinguished. If the flame has arisen, you are fortunate! Blessed! Dance, celebrate! And you ask that it be calmed? If it were to be calmed, why kindle it at all? This is not a fire that can be doused. It is not meant to be put out. This fire is good fortune, auspicious grace. In it your ego will burn; you will not. Whatever rubbish and refuse is in you will burn; you will not. It is the fire into which we place gold: the dross is consumed and the gold emerges refined—made pure.

No—don’t be in such a hurry.
If you claim to love, then endure its longing.
What is this, that at the very outset you grew afraid?

This is only the beginning.
And when you have claimed love...
If you claim to love, then endure its longing.
Now endure it a little.
What is this, that at the very outset you grew afraid?

It has only just begun; for now there is much smoke. The flames have not yet fully taken hold. A moment will come when there will be no smoke at all—only flame, a smokeless blaze! And yes, I know, there is pain too. For what you have known till now as “I” begins to fall apart; to see it crumble, pain is natural. The ego you always worshipped, adorned, polished—seeing that edifice in ruins, of course the heart will weep. The seed must weep, too, when it breaks open. But how can the poor seed know that only by breaking is the tree born! And the drop must weep as it falls into the ocean. But how can that drop know that only by falling into the ocean does it become the ocean! You do not yet know. But you are a little more conscious than the drop, more alert than the seed. Use that much intelligence.

Drink this fire in silently. Don’t even go about speaking of it. For in the very telling a new ego may arise: that we have become devotees, that we are aflame! Don’t begin to parade it—man has a strange habit of exaggeration.

It is a pain I cannot even bring to my lips;
a wound of the heart I cannot show to anyone.

Do not bring it to your tongue, nor show it to anyone. Guard it within. It is capital! It is a diamond! “Having found the diamond, tie it tight in your knot—why open it again and again?” This is not fire; it is the diamond’s radiance. Hide it in your very life-breath. Tell no one! The deeper you hide it within, the sooner the revolution will happen.

You will feel like asking, you will want to understand what is happening. But there are some things that are destroyed by being understood. Some things are better left as mystery. Suppose you fall in love and go to a scientist to ask what love is—you’ll be in trouble. He will say: there is no such thing as love; it is only body chemistry. Because of hormonal imbalances you feel “love.” Nothing special. We’ll give you a hormone injection and the “love” will be gone. It is merely biochemistry.

It’s a good thing Majnu never met a scientist—or one hormone shot would have “cured” him. He would have come to his senses and forgotten all about Laila! And the world would have been deprived of a unique love, a unique love story.

Don’t ask. There are things whose being a mystery is itself proper. On such mysteries rests life’s glory and dignity. Don’t ask a scientist what the beauty of a lotus on the lake is; he will say there is no such thing as beauty—your delusion, your conditioning from childhood. He will take you to the lab, cut the lotus apart, list the mud, the water, the minerals—everything—but beauty you will not find. And once you fall into that trap, you will begin to doubt beauty itself: if it exists, it should be found. This is the snag with science. Take a living man and ask, “Where is the soul in this?” He will dissect and demonstrate: there is no soul—only a puppet of bone, flesh, and marrow.

Say, “There is love arising in my heart,” and the scientist smiles: “What are you talking about? There’s nothing there—just lungs, a pump purifying blood. What love? A plastic heart can do it.” Now plastic hearts are being made. There will be trouble: if a man with a plastic heart falls in love, where will he place his hand? If he puts it on the plastic, people will say, “Are you deceiving us—plastic love?” And sooner or later the whole body can be replaced—plastic, synthetic. In a way, convenient: spoil your hand, go to the garage, get it replaced—just a matter of loosening and tightening screws. Easier, yes—but the man will die. His soul will die. There is something in life that can never be caught in the net of science. So do not seek the explanation of everything.

O wise counselor, then explain to me—
what is it that keeps drawing my heart again and again toward the Beloved?

Who is it that draws me toward the Friend’s lane? But don’t ask the clever ones. They know neither the Beloved nor the Beloved’s street. If you must ask, ask the mad lovers. But the mad will not answer—they will take your hand and say, “Come! We too are going that way—toward the Friend. Come along!”

Some things are not matters of cleverness; they are for those who can dive into mystery.

I am amazed at my own thought—that there are intoxications without wine:
no wine jar before the eyes, no cupbearer, no goblet at hand.

And there are such intoxications where there is no flask, no goblet, no wine—and yet such ecstasy that no wine could ever grant! I am amazed at my own thought—that there are intoxications without wine: no wine jar before the eyes, no cupbearer, no goblet at hand. Religion is the name of that wine—“no cupbearer, no goblet.” Religion is the name of that intoxication—“intoxications without wine.”

You say, “You have lit the fire of love for the Lord in my heart. Now I am burning. Please calm this fire!” I will only stoke it more. This fire is lit with great difficulty. If it catches and begins to blaze, know it is the fruit of merits from many lives. I also understand your difficulty: when fire burns there is unrest, unease, a throbbing ache.

Let the hunter either lock me in the cage—or, ruthless one, set me free.
How long shall we remain ensnared here—between hope and despair?

Great is the difficulty.
Let the hunter lock me in the cage—
or, ruthless one, set me free.
How long shall we remain, here in this snare, between hope and hopelessness?

When the fire is lit, this is exactly the state: neither of this world nor yet of the other. The world begins to look futile, and God still seems far away—like a distant star. Will I ever reach? What you used to hold begins to loosen, and what you must hold still seems far.

In this in-between comes the hardship. To endure that hardship is tapas, true austerity. I do not call lying on thorns tapas, nor starving yourself, nor standing on your head. Tapas is that moment when what was known and familiar slips from your hands, and what is unknown and unfamiliar—its clear edge has not yet come to your grasp. That in-between emptiness is tapas.

In separation from the Friend I lie like a corpse:
the soul is not in the frame—only the body remains alone.

Such a moment comes. In his absence—“I lie like a corpse.” The old life’s craving is gone, ambition gone, the running and rushing gone; that madness—money, position, prestige—has become meaningless.

In separation from the Friend I lie like a corpse:
the soul is not in the frame—only the body remains alone.

And the soul is nowhere to be found yet—no recognition—only the body remains, burning.

But don’t be frightened by it. Love is a costly bargain. Only by losing all do you gain it. And even if not love—if even enmity with Him should arise—fortunate! What then to say of love itself!

If with the Friend a quarrel starts, Asad—
if not union, then let there be longing.
Do not cut off all connection with me—
if not love, then let there be enmity!

If with the Beloved friendship begins—what can be said! Even if only enmity starts, it is fine; for in enmity too He is remembered. A friend may even forget; an enemy cannot.

Do not cut off all connection with me—
if not love, then let there be enmity!

No worry: if you cannot find me worthy of your love, then let there be enmity—but let your remembrance remain.

If with the Friend a quarrel starts, Asad—
if not union, then let there be longing.
If there is no meeting, no matter; let there be the very longing to meet, let there be the fire to attain! That very fire has caught you. Dance, sing, celebrate!

I am amazed at my own thought—that there are intoxications without wine:
no wine jar before the eyes, no cupbearer, no goblet at hand.

Turning my face from all, I am content with Your remembrance;
in it there is a certain dignity—besides the solace.

Whether evening or dawn—let their remembrance be kept.
Day or night—let our talk be only of them.

Now that this fire is lit, stoke it more! I will not pour water on it; I will pour petrol.

Turning my face from all, I am content with Your remembrance;
in it there is a certain dignity—besides the solace.

There is a majesty in it—a grandeur! There is solace, yes, but also a glory. To blaze up with the love of God is the greatest event in this world. A Kohinoor-like diamond has come into your hand—and you say, “It is heavy! O Lord, relieve me of this weight!”

Whether it be evening or dawn—keep only His remembrance.
Day or night—let our talk be only of Him.

Now only His remembrance, only His mention. The breath His, the heartbeat His. Burn—burn well—burn so completely that only ash remains and nothing else! Burn—burn so completely that even the ash is scattered by the winds—no trace remains! Only then is there union—an incomparable meeting. Call it nirvana. That is what the mystic Dariya speaks of: “The word is nirbana—nirvana.”

Do you understand the word “nirvana”?
Its exact sense is what the Sufis call fana. Literally, nirvana means “the lamp blown out”—as if a breath is blown and the flame goes out. Go out like that—be annihilated like that. Disappear like that. As you disappear, He appears. As man goes, God descends. Vacate the throne! Step aside!

Ah, what deprivation, what failure:
what passion we fostered turned out hollow.

From this pastime my eyes never found a moment’s leisure—
what strange comfort did I discover in weeping?

If the difficulty becomes too great—if you cannot sing or dance—then at least weep. And remember: tears will not extinguish the fire; they will fan it. Yet you will feel relief.

From this pastime my eyes never found a moment’s leisure—
what strange comfort did I discover in weeping?

There will surely be ease. For devotees there is one unfailing medicine—tears. When the fire blazes too fiercely, when nothing can be done and nothing is clear—weep deeply, weep your heart out. You will feel light, unburdened.

Is there any certainty about tomorrow? Has tomorrow ever come? You want to take sannyas—and you’ll come some other time! Will life still be in your hands a moment from now? It is here this instant—will it be there the next? So assured you are! Such trust in a life that runs like water!

There is a story in the Mahabharata. The Pandavas were passing their time in exile, in hiding. A beggar came to ask for alms. Yudhishthira was sitting at the hut’s doorway, absorbed in thought. The beggar asked for a handful of flour. Yudhishthira said, “I am busy right now. Come tomorrow.” Bhima was sitting nearby; he burst into laughter. Not only did he laugh, he picked up a bell lying there and began to ring it. Yudhishthira asked, “What’s the matter with you, Bhima?” Bhima said, “I want to go to the village, ring the bell, and announce the great news that my elder brother has conquered Time. He has told a beggar, ‘Come tomorrow.’ From that one thing it is certain: he is sure he will be there tomorrow, the beggar will be there tomorrow, and we will still have a handful of flour to give tomorrow. Let me go and tell the village that my elder brother has accomplished what no one has ever done.”

The satire cut deep. Yudhishthira ran, caught hold of the beggar, brought him in, gave him the alms, and said, “Forgive me! What certainty is there about tomorrow? Tomorrow I may not be; tomorrow you may not be. Tomorrow both of us may be, but there may be no flour in the house. Tomorrow both of us may be and flour may be there, but you may no longer be a beggar. What certainty is there about tomorrow!”

There is an old Chinese tale. An emperor became angry with his prime minister and sentenced him to death. According to custom, on the day before the execution, the emperor would visit the condemned. And this was his minister, who had served him all his life, so he went. He tied his horse outside the prison. The minister was looking through the bars. The door opened; tears began to fall from the minister’s eyes. The emperor said, “You, and you weep! Do you weep from fear of death? I have always known you as a brave man. You have fought so many wars; life and death were playthings to you—and you weep! I can hardly believe my eyes, seeing tears in yours.”

The minister said, “I am not weeping for my death. I am weeping for something else—but what use is it to say now? Let it be. Your great kindnesses—thank you for them.” The emperor said, “I will not let it be. I want to know—what are you weeping for? You have aroused my curiosity. I have never seen you cry.”

The minister said, “There was never any reason to weep before; today there is. The reason is—since you ask—that all my life I worked to learn an art by which I could make a horse fly in the sky, but the breed of horse required for it I could never find. And today, the horse on which you have come is exactly that breed. I weep because a lifetime’s effort may go in vain: tomorrow morning I must die, and only today has this horse appeared before my eyes.”

Temptation arose in the emperor too: a horse that flies in the sky! Then his name would be famous throughout the world—he would have a horse no one else has. He asked, “How long will it take to make the horse fly?” The minister said, “One year.” The emperor said, “Don’t worry—come out. If the horse flies, I will give you half my kingdom and marry my daughter to you. If it doesn’t, no harm—your hanging will take place a year from now.”

The minister rode the horse home. His wife and children were beating their chests with grief, for they thought he was to die tomorrow. They could hardly believe their eyes—were they dreaming? “You are back?” He said, “I have returned.” “How?” He told them the whole story. Hearing it, his wife beat her chest all the more: “You have created yet another misery! I know well you have never learned any such art. And if you had to trick him, at least you should have asked for ten years—one year! This one year will weigh on our chests all the more: now he will go, now he will go—each day passing with your death coming closer! The horse will not fly.” The minister said, “Don’t worry, foolish woman! What certainty is there about a year? I may die; the king may die; the horse may die—what is certain about a year? Had I asked for ten, he might not have dared grant it. That is why I asked for a year. But a year is plenty—anything can happen!”

And, strangely enough, within that year all three died—the king, the horse, and the minister.

And you ask me, “I certainly want to take sannyas.” What kind of certainty is this? Certainty does not wait. What kind of sannyas is it that you will take tomorrow? The king may die, the minister may die, the horse—any of the three may die! I may no longer be here, you may no longer be here, and the very impulse to take sannyas—the horse—may die. Who knows?

Nothing is certain about tomorrow. When you came here yesterday there was no urge to take sannyas; today it is here—tomorrow it may not be. “But not now,” you say. If not now, then never—remember it. Whatever is to be done must be done now. “I will think it over and come again.” Has anyone ever taken sannyas by thinking it over? Thinking is the obstacle. Sannyas is a leap outside of thought. It is the work of the wild at heart! It is the courage of madmen! It is the daring of the intoxicated and the blissful! It is not a matter of sitting and calculating—keeping a ledger: this much profit, this much loss; when it is certain the profit is greater and the loss smaller, then someday we will take it. Death will arrive before that. The thinking will not be completed. Thinking is never completed. From one thought another sprouts—as leaves sprout on trees, so thoughts sprout from thoughts.

And you ask my “command”—I give no one any command. A command means: it must be done! Commands are for the army, not for sannyas. Right turn, left turn—those are commands!

I do not give anyone commands. True masters have never given commands—they have given counsel.

Understand the difference between counsel and command. A command means it has to be done. I am the master, you are the slave; the order must be obeyed; if not, you will be punished. Counsel means a request. It seems so to me, so I say it to you. After that, it is your choice. If you follow it, I am happy; if you do not follow it, I am happy.

This is the difference between a soldier and a sannyasin. A soldier is obedient; a sannyasin is self-possessed. He listens to counsel. He listens, reflects, meditates, and then moves according to his inner voice.

But do not bring up tomorrow. Tomorrow is a great lie.

Today, drink your fill of the moon—
who knows if this night will ever return!

The lamps give alms to dream-wet eyes,
as if they float along a Diwali stream;
a few garlands of song fall on the lips,
laughter breaks like morning on the fall.
But this season will not linger long;
each moment a summons comes for me—
no surprise if by tomorrow, here,
the world may not find even my dust!

Today, drink your fill of the moon—
who knows if this night will ever return!

Who knows at what moment a foot will lift,
the caravan will march away from this village?
Who can say when, to ease its weariness,
morning will beg for light from evening?
On Time’s nondual lips there rests
this life—a flute of skin;
who knows if tomorrow the maker of breath
will fancy this instrument, this voice—or not?

Today, drink your fill of the moon—
who knows if this night will ever return!

This sapphire city studded with stars
is only a spectacle for the morning sun;
this great smiling moon
is but a grain in time’s winnowing fan.
No one here is truly free;
a chain is on every foot—
a fetter alien to us from birth;
and breath—who can be sure
when it will sing or fall silent?

Today, drink your fill of the moon—
who knows if this night will ever return!

The dream-eyed maiden Sleep—
who knows if there will be dawn tomorrow;
in the lap of this small lamp, will this flame
again find such a home—or not?
The earth is moving beneath our feet,
the sky is circling above our heads;
dust is a renunciate to the whole creation—
who knows if tomorrow it will veil our hut—or not?

Today, drink your fill of the moon—
who knows if this night will ever return!

In the marketplace of the body lies
the jewel of the heart—
when will it sell, for what price—no one knows.
Which star’s glance will strike whom?
In this so-called known world, who knows that?
Every day, every single moment is uncertain;
only uncertainty is certain here—
therefore it is quite possible, O life, that tomorrow
the moon may come, but bring no moonlight!

Today, drink your fill of the moon—
who knows if this night will ever return!

That’s all for today.